The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  She ushers Lou and Chou out the front door, watches them fondly as they squat for their final pee of the day, then bundles them into her room and locks the door behind her. By the time she emerges from her ensuite, face cleansed and thickly lathered with night cream, her babies have nestled into the duvet. They watch her every move, their eyes pools of empathy and trust. She loves these two so deeply, just seeing them cuddled up on the bed waiting for her almost brings her to tears.

  She settles herself in bed and gazes around her room at the pieces of furniture, paintings and small decorative items that bring her comfort. She looks at them in exactly the same order every night. And when she wakes at some ungodly hour, she will go through this ritual again. It stops the panic rising and overtaking her. It connects her with the past and with people outside this house, outside this country. She always starts at the door, on the back of which hangs her cream silk robe, a gift from Daddy. To the left hangs a portrait of Susannah in her twenties, painted by her first husband, Maxwell, who, at that time, was a theatre set designer and is now a highly respected director. Truly the kindest man in the world. There isn’t a day that passes that she doesn’t regret how careless she was with that marriage. Just thinking of him brings her comfort.

  On the dresser, in a silver vase, a bunch of dried red roses, the bouquet she received for her role as Helga in the West End production of The Honey Tree. Maxwell arranged for these to be preserved for her as a memento. Perhaps he had a premonition that, despite strong reviews, her career would falter and fade away from that point on. Nevertheless, not everyone can claim a West End performance. Next comes her mother’s silver brush and mirror set with pearl inlay. Precious objects steeped in memories, they somehow ease the pangs of self-recrimination she suffers these days, the sleepless nights spent traversing her life, re-examining every turning point, every decision. Her decisions were often just thoughtless responses to circumstance with no sense of possible repercussions. She allowed others to make decisions for her until there were no choices left. Now she is here. It always comes back to that.

  Meeting these young people, with their life and potential ahead of them, throws into sharp relief the dreadful realisation that her potential is all behind her now. She once had promise. Everyone said so. A promising debut. A promising actress. When does promise expire? When she was young, people turned towards her – she was at the centre of things. At some point they began to turn away. She became someone who had not lived up to her early promise. She has a vision of herself as a butterfly that folds itself back into its chrysalis; a sort of reverse metamorphosis. The dreams she once had have been worn away, eroded by the abrasions of life. Her potential squandered on worthless pursuits.

  Chapter Seven

  Out on the patio, Dominic enjoys a snifter of Rémy while savouring one of his last Spanish Rosados. He breathes a sigh of satisfaction as the woody flavour of the cognac melds with the leathery undertone of the cigar. Who knew when he would be able to procure any more of these? Perhaps they should relocate to Cuba. That would solve several problems at once.

  He turns his gaze to the night sky. Enchanted by the firmament of stars above, he is struck by the realisation that he is undergoing some sort of renaissance; a reawakening. This renewed appreciation of his surroundings is a gift of the Tinkers. Even their surname has a mischievous twinkle to it. Their charming naïveté and romantic idealism is like a tonic and having something of a redemptive effect on him.

  His current situation, which he considers unsatisfactory, bordering on untenable, is being reconfigured through their admiring eyes. Even his home, which has little to redeem it – apart from the cellar – he has to acknowledge is comfortably bolstered and upholstered by contrast to the derelict discomfort of Chez Tinker. The ease of his own existence is more evident when compared to the great burden they have taken on themselves. In fact, at one point in the evening, as though perceiving Susannah as the Tinkers did, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the remnants of her once luminous beauty, seeing her as burnished by time rather than simply decaying. Of course, they haven’t witnessed the woman’s decline from artless ingénue to the harpy she has become today. Nevertheless, it did him good to be reminded that it wasn’t always so.

  More astonishing is that he’s experiencing a momentary softening of his attitude towards the French whom he generally considers bloody-minded beyond redemption. But it seems that the entire race can be viewed more charitably through the rainbow prism of Mia’s loving gaze, and she has brainwashed her husband to feel the same way.

  Mia is evidently infatuated with the French. At one point during the evening, she expressed disbelief at the contradictory phenomena that every year more than eighty million people visit France because they are besotted with all things French but at the same time condemn the French for being themselves and protecting these things that visitors so admire. It’s as though she was born into a cult of Francophiles. Half-a-dozen times this evening he’d had the urge to make some cutting remark about the mind-bending frustrations of dealing with the French but managed to restrain himself. While there is hardly a subject he prefers to the enumeration of his ever-growing list of complaints about his adopted country, he will not be the one to dampen their enthusiasm. He will not be the one to disillusion them – he will leave that to the French themselves. He’ll simply be there to commiserate when the Tinkers are roused from their dreamy slumber. They will learn the hard way.

  Say what you will about the British, and even Australians, for that matter, they do attempt to be helpful, particularly when they are being paid to do so – otherwise known as ‘customer service’ these days. A foreign concept in France. The French feel no such impulse. The phrase ‘C’est pas possible’ spills from French lips before you even finish explaining what you want – never considering that it might be eminently possible. The lowliest clerk has a laser-like ability to locate the tiny detail that allows him to send you packing. If there isn’t a rule, he will improvise. Some poor sod, simply trying to complete a basic administrative task, finds himself throttled by red tape and forced to debate, cajole and convince some petty bureaucrat to do his or her job. The woman at La Poste fairly bristles if she sees you approach with a large parcel, as if you’re going to demand she personally cycle to Britain with the bloody thing under her arm.

  The little Tinkers view things simplistically. For Ben, who is not a French speaker and quite possibly will never be fluent, there will be myriad subtleties that he could never pick up on but Mia may be more sensitive to the disapproving little snubs the French specialise in.

  In all honesty, what he enjoys most about the Tinkers is the reflection he sees of himself. The respect, even reverence, they showed towards his knowledge of wines. And his (quite rudimentary) knowledge of the provenance of the cheeses had obviously impressed them – until Susannah interrupted and insisted they leave, practically throwing them out of the house. The woman has become a social liability.

  And the sacrifice of crystal was quite unnecessary. He may have been getting carried away in the moment and perhaps a trifle indiscreet. But, truly, was it so difficult to give him a warning look, a cautionary signal? Pushing these irritations aside, he turns his gaze once more to the night sky and tips back the last of his drink. Bliss. He envisions himself as a mentor sharing his knowledge, his wisdom, his understanding of the world, inducting Ben into the temple of epicurean pleasures, starting with cognac and cigars. The dawn of a new era. Thank God.

  Chapter Eight

  After almost a month in the house, the initial shock of the move is behind us and we find ourselves in a honeymoon phase. Every day we work together to make the house more habitable. We’re falling in love with the village of Cordes-sur-Ciel and with our new home. It’s only just beginning to feel as though it is actually ours. Ben and I seem to be more in tune with each other too. Can it be this simple? I’m instinctively suspicious of anything simple. Simplicity is so often an illusion.

  The shadow of our re
cent separation – something I never thought could happen – and the confusion of everything surrounding it still hover at my shoulder. But here we are, skating across the surface of life, the sun shines bright and our world has a golden sheen.

  Most evenings we walk up the hill to the village just as the tiny shops and artisan ateliers are closing for the night. The winding cobblestone streets are almost empty, the tourists and daytrippers have disappeared into buses or hotels. Although the evenings are becoming cooler, we sit en plein air at the café in Place de la Halle and enjoy a glass of wine. From the hilltop, the countryside is a patterned carpet of tree-lined fields, patches of woodlands and the river Le Cérou winding off into the distance with the occasional house or chateau tucked away. When the sky is clear, the sunset stretches above us like a great silken banner, woven in scarlets and golds. Within minutes it dissolves like sugar fondant into the palest pink and honey colours, fading slowly to a silver twilight and then, holding hands, we wander down the hill to our new home.

  We’ve been eating mix-up meals with fresh produce from the village market. The dense flavours remind us of everything we loved about France from our earlier trips. The luscious flavours of a ripe tomato, the sour crust of French camembert and the tenderness of haricots verts – thin green beans that never taste as good anywhere as they do here. The combination of fresh chèvre smeared on ripe figs and washed down with a vin rouge is almost sensual. Ben may be having a hard time with the language but the food makes up for a lot. We share our enjoyment, taking turns to groan with pleasure, lavishing praise on every bite. The Normandy butter tastes so buttery, the Brie de Meaux deliciously nutty and earthy like mushrooms, and Ben remarks that it’s as though his tastebuds are on ecstasy, every mouthful a high. He eats almost anything; I’m the more discerning foodie. He’s a jaffle kind of a guy. Two pieces of bread and whatever he can find in the fridge, squash it together in the press and wolf it down. He sees that as fuel but fully appreciates that what we’re eating now is next level.

  At the end of the day, exhausted by our labours, satiated by food, and often too much wine, we fall into bed and make love with a passion I don’t ever recall, even in the early years of our relationship. It’s like rebound sex, but with each other. The house seems to have reunited us but all that really matters is that we can somehow see our future together.

  Ben has set up his workstation in a bedroom that looks over the back garden. From there he can keep an eye on those trouble some goats who seem determined to eat only things they can’t quite reach. We both brought our core computer gear from home and have now purchased three large monitors; he uses two that sit side by side on a table that has become his desk.

  Soon he will disappear into the virtual world of a project on the other side of the globe where his scrum master will become the main woman in his life. We’re lucky that he can work remotely but I’m worried about what I will do with myself while he works. I’m fearful of being left to my own devices, having to confront my lack of direction.

  I know that I don’t need to rush around trying to find a creative endeavour, I just need to be open to it finding me, and I might as well be doing something practical in the meantime. So I start by cleaning out the two small utility rooms between the kitchen and the room that runs along the rear of the house. There are so many rooms in this house, we’ve had to give them names. We call the larger room at the front of the house the salon, and the one beside it is obviously the dining room, and this long one that opens to the garden we call the summer room. It will be a while before it lives up to its name.

  The utility rooms are small and dark; the only natural light comes from a window in the hallway that leads to the kitchen. I assume they were used for storing food and as overflow from the kitchen. One of them has a sink and bench, the other is empty apart from a few boxes. The house had been given a basic clean, and all Madame Levant’s personal things have gone apart from odd bits and pieces that someone probably thought would be useful.

  The boxes in the utility room contain old kitchen utensils, some nice old coffee cups and plates; nothing of real interest apart from a doll with a china face, her blue glass eyes dull with age and hair in tufts. I also find a baby’s rattle, some glass marbles, the handle of a skipping rope. I try to imagine the house in earlier times, full of life, with children running through the hallways. We often hear the sounds of children chattering as they pass on their way to school, otherwise it is completely silent in this house.

  I take the toys up to the little bedroom that continues to mystify me. It has a child-sized bed with an armchair beside it, as if positioned for a bedtime story. The wallpaper is patterned with blossom sprigs and tiny birds. The curtains are a dusky pink with a matching canopy over the bed. It’s not like a shrine or anything like that; there are no belongings left here. The question is, who could this child be? Madame Levant apparently had no descendants, so presumably she had no grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Maybe this room was her childhood room, and remained as it was for almost a century. I sense there’s something sad about it, as though it is more empty than other rooms.

  I wash down the floors and the walls of the little store rooms. That’s a simple job; the next will be to tackle the kitchen which needs a lot more work. Hopefully, we’ll do that together. Working alone, I find my thoughts more in the past than the future. It’s as though I have reached a roadblock and have to keep turning back in my search for the way forward.

  Ben would agree with Dominic’s comment about the past being the past, but it is obviously inextricably entwined with the future. There are still things I need to put right so that Ben understands what happened between us. He avoids that conversation; he says he doesn’t care – let’s just move on. It’s as though he fears that if we look back it will overtake us again and everything will fall down around our heads. As though the past has to be smothered by this dazzling new future.

  I fear that the Harringtons are the spectre of our future selves. Dominic and Susannah seem bored with everything in their lives, and with each other. Childless couples seem to live for each other, or else they just live for themselves. It feels like such an empty, pointless, unchanging life to me. It’s children that create the seasons of a life: babyhood, childhood, adolescence and adulthood. Without them, Ben’s and my life together will be static, unless we force some artificial change on it to keep ourselves busy.

  It’s hard to get past the idea that we are filling in time, making a life for ourselves other than the one we really wanted. A consolation prize when there is no consolation to be had. There is no point discussing this with Ben – picking it over is too painful for him. He’s the pragmatic one. This is the blow that life has dealt us; we just have to deal with it. For him, the finality of the diagnosis was a gift. It was definitive, saving us years of hope and heartache. Now there is nothing to do but live with it.

  After the warm days of autumn, November brings cooler weather and the house grows colder by the day. The evenings are a bit too cool to walk up to the village now. Instead we light the fire in the wood-burning stove in the kitchen and eat soups and pastas. We have gradually started inhabiting just a few rooms; the others are uncomfortably cold. Ben wants to leave the heating off until absolutely essential because of the cost.

  Tonight it’s really cold and we agree it’s time to get some heating on. Ben opens up the radiators in our bedroom, one bathroom, his workroom and the summer room, where I’ve set up my work area on the long table. He goes down to the cellar to see how the boiler is handling it.

  Every evening now, before I go to bed, I put on my coat and walk outside and close the front gates. It’s partly security, not that we’re at any risk in this quiet village, but more a sort of ritual to acknowledge the close of the day. To recognise this moment, not simply rush on to the next one. Outside the night is deep and quiet, a ghostly new moon suspended above the golden crown of the village radiant in the blackness. The air smells of fire and water and earth. When I
stand out here in the velvety dark, there is the sense of timelessness. I can imagine this experience would have been the same a decade ago or even a century ago. My musings are interrupted by a distant pop and I turn back towards the house to find it in complete darkness.

  Chapter Nine

  The timing couldn’t be worse from a work perspective and Ben is grateful when Dominic not only manages to get an electrician within days, but comes over himself to help sort the situation out.

  The electrician, Monsieur Morel, is retired and so miraculously available, but clearly not keen at the same time. He doesn’t speak a word of English but explains the problems to Dominic at length. Ben follows them around the house, up and down the stairs, and picks up a few words he doesn’t like the sound of: in particular, dangereux and mortel – deadly.

  Morel drinks the coffee Mia brings him while he scribbles down some figures with a stub of pencil on a scrap of paper he finds in his pocket. He adds these figures up, muttering under his breath, and finally hands the note to Dominic who raises his eyebrows and passes it on to Ben who feels himself go pale with shock.

  He should have seen it coming. In a house this size everything is going to cost three times what it would for a normal-sized house. This expense will soak up nearly half of their entire budget. Playing the negotiator, Dominic enjoys a long debate with Morel and assures Ben that this is the outside cost. He personally guarantees it.

  The bang in the basement marks the end of the golden days. The clear skies turn to pulpy grey clouds, the light flat and metallic. Cold seeps into the stone walls. Chill winds thread their way through every crevice as, for the next four days, Morel and his offsider, Enzo, tramp through the house. Their noisy drilling makes the whole house tremble, and all day they shout to each other up and down the stairs. Morel is well aware that Mia speaks French, but he will only discuss the job with Dominic, who arrives first thing in the morning and at the end of the day for updates. Morel apparently doesn’t trust females with potentially deadly electrical information.